Fly Me Up to Where You Are
by Dimples1
Summary: Spot Conlon wasn't looking for someone to save his life, but that's what happened when Angela came to the Lodging House. One shot song fic.


"Fly Me Up to Where You Are"

Disclaimer: Repeat after me: I do NOT own Spot or any of the other characters from the movie _Newsies_. I simply borrow them from Disney without them knowing. Yes, THIS CONTAINS RELIGIOUS CONTENT! You have been warned so don't tell me otherwise. I own Mrs. Harding, Cook's, Angela, Angel, and all of Spot's newsies though. Oh yes, Lily aka Morning Dew owns herself! Also, I DON'T own "To Where You Are" by Josh Groban but I highly recommend listening to it.

A.N.: Yes, I have started another fic!!! This was inspired by my long-time crush a year and a half ago sitting on a bench with his head in his hands. Okay, just thought I'd tell y'all. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

            "She's gone."

            That was all Spot Conlon could think of as he sat atop a bench, his feet planted on the seat, his head in his hands. He gingerly reached into his coat pocket and retrieved his handkerchief to wipe away a few stray tears. _Spot Conlon crying over a girl _he mused_. _This girl was different though. She hadn't thrown herself at him like all the other girls. She had respected him and he had respected her. He could still remember the first time they met.

_Who can say for certain   
Maybe you're still here   
I feel you all around me   
Your memories so clear _

******flashback******

            It was September after the strike, and Spot had just sold his last paper and was walking back to the Lodging House. He had taken the usual shortcuts, hoping to get home a little early and take a nap. A poker tournament had kept the whole Lodging House up until about two in the morning, and all the guys seemed to be dead on their feet. Spot finally reached the Lodging House and saw that a girl was checking in with Mrs. Harding. 

            "Hi, my name's Angela," the girl said as she noticed him walking toward her and Mrs. Harding.

            Spot smiled politely at her and replied as he kissed her hand, "Hey, I'se Spot Conlon, leada a da Brooklyn newsies."

            They held each other's gazes for a moment before Mrs. Harding interrupted.

            "Now I usually don't take in girls," Mrs. Harding began, "but you look like you may be a good influence on them. Spot, will you show her the bunkroom?"

            Spot nodded and motioned for Angela to follow him. They entered a room filled with bunk beds and saw a washroom was attached. Many of the beds had various possessions strung on them: an undershirt, a hat, a pair of suspenders, etc.

            Spot interrupted her thoughts as he said, "Me bunk is ova dere by da window. You'se can have da top." 

            Angela thanked him and put her small bag on the bunk. Spot flopped on his bed and looked at the underside of Angela's bed. He smiled when he saw his handiwork on one of the slats: 'S.C. was here 5-20-97'. That was the day he had defeated Cass and become the leader of Brooklyn. He smiled triumphantly when he recalled Cass's bleeding lip and two black eyes. Deciding that his nap could wait until later, Spot rose from his bunk and stood to see what Angela was up to. She was brushing her soft auburn hair and humming a soft tune to herself. She looked up to see Spot staring right back at her. 

            "Oh, sorry. Was my humming disturbing you?" she asked as she tied a ribbon in her hair.

            "Uh, naw. Jus' wanted ta see what ya were up to, dat's all," Spot replied as he fixed his cane in his belt loop. "Well, I'se kinda wanted ta ask ya something too."

            "Shoot."

            "Well, I'se ask all me newsies dis, but what's ya story? I ain't tryin' ta be nosy or anythin' but if da cops come by or somethin' an' ask 'have ya seen dis goil' I'se need ta know if you'se runnin' from someone or somethin'-like ya past."  

            Angela nodded and said, "I don't have a past."

            Spot blinked for a second. This was not what he was expecting. He was supposed to hear something like 'my boyfriend hit me' or 'my father abuses me' or something like that- not this 'I don't have a past' thing.

            "Well if you'se don't wanna tell me right away I'se understand," Spot replied, trying to ease off a little.

            "It's not that," Angela began as she got down from her bunk and landed right in front of Spot.

            "I'm not running from anyone. I just wandered over into Brooklyn and I need some money so I thought I would be a newsie. No one is looking for me." 

            "You sure?" Spot said, a little apprehensive of this girl. 

            Angela nodded and smiled at him. The two talked for a little while longer until the Brooklyn newsies started to stream into the Lodging House. Some of them looked at Angela with a hint of suspicion on their faces while others passed her off as Spot's new girl. 

            "Angela, dese are me newsies," Spot began he put his arm protectively around her shoulder. 

            "Dat's Rat, Rumble, Mischief, Chance, Outlaw, an' Tiger," he said as he motioned to a group of older boys. Many of them tipped their hats to Angela before going back to their previous conversation.

            "An' den we'se have Reese, Hook, Midnight, Scowl, Slingshot, Trouble, Rex, Thunder, an' Lightning," Spot continued as he pointed to a group of younger boys who were on the floor playing with some marbles.

            "An' dese boys ova hea are whad we'se call da 'Wreckin' Crew'- da best fightas in awl a New Yawk- Hercules, Mighty Mouth, Snap, Dart, and Coal." The boys were all around a poker table arm wrestling with each other.

            "Boys listen up!" Spot shouted, his voice serious and harsh, "Dis is Angela. She's gonna be stayin' wid us foa awhile. If I'se find out dat you'se been treatin' 'er wrong or tryin' somethin' wid 'er, we'se got a place down at da bottom a da East Riva wid ya name on it."

            The guys mumbled some type of response to him for that. It was one of the few rules they lived by- Respect all women. They could be your wife someday.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

            For the next few weeks, Angela sold papes in the morning and usually took time out in the afternoon to either read a book or sit on the roof. The boys knew she attended church every Sunday, and she even tried to get Spot to go with her sometimes.

            _"Come on, Spot. Please just go with me once. You might even like it,"_ she said the Saturday night before as they got ready for bed. 

            _"Naw, Ange. I'se not da church type. Ya betta go widout me,"_ he replied, looking for any excuse to get out of going with her.

            _"Okay, suit yourself,"_ she told him, a look of hurt evident of her face. He nodded and watched her climb up to her bunk and settle herself. Spot did feel guilty about not going to church, but he also thought of his reputation. How would the rest of the guys react if they knew the most famous newsie in all of New York attended church? Besides, he had given up on God a long time ago.

            He lay there in his bed at night thinking about when he had stopped believing in God. Ever since he was born he and his parents were avid churchgoers and always managed to make it to St. Patrick's Cathedral almost every Sunday. He had even been named after the saint: Patrick Samuel Conlon. But only Jack and a few of his most trusted newsies knew that. 

            Spot ran a hand through his sandy strands and thought about the day his father killed his mother. His father had owned a shrimp boat and one day when Patrick was about eight, a huge storm hit. His father lost everything, the crew, the boats, the nets, everything they needed to have a shrimping business. His family was devastated, especially his father. That's when the abuse started. Sometimes his father would hit his mother for no reason, and she just told Patrick to stay back. One day his father went too far. He came home drunk and beat his mother so hard that she lost too much blood and died. Spot could barely hold back his tears as he took a deep breath.

            "I'se ain't gonna cry. Cryin' is a sign a weakness," he told himself as he rolled over, trying not to think about what happened next.

            Patrick, even though he was supposed to be in his room, had seen the entire thing. He knew his mother was dead. He could see the blood that trailed from her mouth onto the rich beige oriental carpet that was now spotted with drops of crimson blood. His looked at his father, who was now coming back to reality. Patrick stepped back as his father walked toward his wife's body and attempted to gather her in his arms in an effort to hide her. Patrick took a deep breath and raced to his parents' bedroom, remembering they kept a loaded shotgun under their bed in case a robber or intruder found his way in. He checked to make sure his father hadn't seen him and held the gun under his arm as he tiptoed down the marble staircase. His father's back was turned, trying to hide his mother's body under the pillows on the sofa.

            "Dis is for maw," he told his father, a hint of his natural Brooklyn accent slipping out. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. A single shot floated through the now silent house. Patrick looked down at the man he used to idolize. The man who gave him piggy back rides in Central Park. The man who always read him a bedtime story, no matter how tired he was or how late it was. Mr. Conlon's eyes were still open, but he wasn't breathing. Patrick took one ragged breath and spit on him before racing out of the house, never to return. That was the day he had lost faith. If God was so great, how could he let this happen?  

            Spot's eyes flew open at the memory. Those eyes, the same bright blue hue of his. Those eyes had haunted him ever since that day. Those eyes. . . 

            His grueling memory was interrupted as he felt the springs shift above him. A small foot appeared over the side and then another. Angie was up. She usually got up about once a week when she thought all of the others were asleep. Spot thought this was rather odd but since she never disturbed him or the others, he didn't say anything to her. He watched her creep out through the small window that was located across the room from him. He smirked when her nightgown got caught and she almost lost her balance but regained it as she softly closed the window behind her and climbed the fire escape to the roof. Spot glanced around. Everyone else seemed to be asleep; probably dreaming of a better life where they didn't have to worry about not having enough money for dinner or lodging, someplace where getting to bathe once a week was a sin, not luck.. He shrugged, muttering "This is da life we was doomed to lead since da day we was born," before climbing through the window himself.

            Spot almost swore out loud when the stairway creaked nosily as he reached the last step. The last thing he wanted was for Angela to turn around and see him invading her privacy. Luckily she was too involved in whatever she was doing and didn't even seem to notice. She was on her knees, hands clasped together, and her head bowed. As Spot got a little closer, he could hear her soft voice.

            "Father, I'm not sure I was the right choice for this mission. They don't seem to have an interest in going to church. The other day this little boy named Thunder asked me, 'Who's God?' I just wanted to tell him all these wonderful things about You and all the great things You've done, but Spot came over and told us we needed to wash up for dinner. Oh yes, Spot. I know and You know deep down he really wants to go to church, but he still keeps looking out for his precious reputation. I can see it in his eyes though. Every time I ask him to go with me this little bit of a glow sparks but then is disappears as soon as he starts to make up another excuse."

            Angela sighed for a moment and began again, but Spot didn't hear her. He was busy glaring at her back now. How dare she say these things about him? They may have been true, but that was his business. And what was this mission thing? He wanted some answers and he wanted them now.

            "And God, please give me the strength and willpower to help the boys learn more about You and Your word. Amen." Angela finished and stood up. She dusted her nightgown off and turned to see a very agitated Spot only a few feet away from her.

            "Ya wanna tell me what dis is all about?" he asked her, his arms folded over his chest, his eyes now a dangerous darker blue.

            "Not really, but since you asked, I guess I could," Angela replied as she sat on the top step on the fire escape and motioned for Spot to do the same. Spot joined her, but sat a few inches farther away from her, acting as though she had some infectious disease that he could die of as soon as he came into contact with her.

            "Now Spot, you and I both know I don't bite. You can sit a little closer to me," Angela told him. Once she saw he wasn't moving, she moved a little closer to him. 

            "Okay, what do you want to know?" she asked as she played with a ribbon on that was sewn onto her nightgown. 

            "Who are ya? Tell me da truth," Spot asked her, his voice dangerously low.

            "My name is Angela. I don't know what my last name was," Angela told him looking him straight in the eye.

            "Was?" Spot asked, his eyebrow arched in confusion. Was she married or something?

            "Yes, was. We don't really use last names in Heaven. I'm an angel. I have been for over twelve years now, and I can't remember it since God knows everyone and doesn't need to know their last name," Angela replied, a hint of smile playing on her lips as she thought of her home.

            "Okay, how do I'se know you ain't some crazy broad off da street lookin' ta brainwash me newsies inta believin' in some god dat don't exist?" Spot asked, half of him getting angrier by the second and the other half hardly believing what he was hearing himself say. Angela openly gasped and before she could stop herself, planted a hard smack on Spot's cheek.

            "How could you say that? Or even think it? Look at what all God has blessed you with," Angela replied, her own temper starting to ignite from Spot's callous remarks.

            "Blessed! Blessed? Sometimes beggin' foa food and havin' ta sleep on da streets? Ya call dat blessed?" Spot asked her, knowing they had probably woken up the entire Lodging House by now.

            "Think of the alternative," Angela simply stated as she walked down the fire escape and climbed back through the window, not wanting to participate in the argument anymore. Spot sighed and stood up, running a hand through his hair. Deciding sleep was more important than brooding on the argument he finally descended the stairs and climbed into his bed, not even bothering to look up to see what Angela was doing although he already knew: praying.

_Deep in the stillness _

_I can hear you speak   
You're still an inspiration _

_Can it be  
That you are mine _

_Forever love   
And you are watching over me from up above _

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

            The following morning, it seemed that there was an unspoken vow of silence between Angela and Spot. They got dressed without the usual morning banter; neither of them seemed too interested in selling papes, and they seemed to glare at each other each chance they got. Neither of them made an appearance at Cook's, the Brooklyn newsies' equivalent to Manhattan's Tibby's; Spot stopped off and bought a sandwich from a street vendor and Angela skipped eating to make a special stop at St. Patrick's. Each time they saw each other they either went the opposite way or continued on going without so much as a polite 'Hello' or a nod. Spot even took the long way back to the Lodging House in hopes of avoiding Angela. He was almost to the Lodging House door when he decided to take another side trip. He turned and walked toward the docks, _his_ docks. No one could ever take that away from him. Spot adjusted his cane in his belt loop and walked down the docks. He saw a lone figure a little ways down from him but didn't think anything of it; he would investigate who it was later. Right now he was enjoying the beauty and splendor of the sunset from his perch on the docks. As the sun began to disappear under the horizon, Spot decided to see who this mysterious person was and began to walk toward the figure. As soon as he got about half way there, he wished he could turn back and just forget that he ever ventured down there. No, he was Spot Conlon. Spot Conlon did not back down, ever. He continued on his way and finally reached the figure, creating a shadow and forcing them to look up. 

            "Hello," Angela said in a cool tone. She looked him over once and then looked back to the East River. She had taken her shoes off and now her feet were dangling over the docks, the warm water washing over them. Spot studied her for a minute before he spoke.

            "Can I'se sit down?" he asked her, already planning to sit down even if she said no.

            "Be my guest," Angela answered him as she motioned to the place beside her. He settled himself beside her and was about to take his shoes off when Angela suddenly got up, gathered her shoes, and started to walk back to the Lodging House. Spot swore under his breath and scowled. Oh well, he had attempted to smooth things out with her; now it was her turn to try and make up with him. He stayed out there a little while longer, basking in the sun's few rays that were still visible. After awhile he got up, dusted himself off, and finally entered the Lodging House. He had just walked by the door to the bunkroom when he heard Angela talking with someone. The person had a high voice and obviously sounded like a child. He suddenly recognized the voice as Midnight's, a small boy of ten with dark stormy eyes and jet black hair. He had received his nickname for his fondness of wondering around the Lodging House at that hour; he always seemed to succeed in at least scaring one or two boys whenever he explored the Lodging House.

            "So this guy God loves me? He doesn't even know me," Midnight asked Angela, inquisitive as ten-year-old boys tend to be.

            "Oh, he knows you," Angela said as she ran her hand through the boy's thick hair. "He knows everything about you- every freckle, every scar. He knew about you before you were born."

            "How?" Midnight asked, once again a curious fire lit in his eyes.

            "Because He knows everything. He knows who you're gonna marry, when you're gonna meet her, what's gonna happen next week, He knows all of that and so much more."

            Midnight looked at Angela with wide eyes. "He knows even knows about you too?" 

            Angela nodded and replied, "Yes, He knows everything about everyone."   

            "Even Spot?" Midnight asked. 

            Angela had to laugh a little at this. She knew the younger newsboys all thought of Spot as some sort of god sent down to protect them and watch over them. "Yes, even Spot."

            Midnight gaped, amazed, and asked her some more questions. Spot, who was still in the doorway, continued to watch her witness to the younger newsboy. A hint of guilt almost washed away the smirk that continually appeared on his lips, but he quickly dismissed the feeling and thought to himself 'If the boy only knew what he was gettin' himself into; just a lot of broken promises.' He shook his head and walked to the washroom, determined to talk to Angela some time that night.

            What Spot didn't realize though, was that Angela had seen him standing in the doorway and now was heading toward the washroom. She was going to resolve this fight one way or another. She had seen him smirk when she was telling Midnight about Heaven and all the wonderful things there and couldn't understand why Spot still held a grudge against God and life in general. She finished talking to Midnight and sent him downstairs to play with the other boys while she washed up for dinner. Angela entered the washroom, forgetting Spot had just gone in there and was pleasantly surprised to find Spot just getting out of the shower, in a towel no less. She was about to cover her mouth and walk back out the door when Spot just happened to look up to retrieve his key that he had placed by the sink she was washing her hands in. A gray cloud started to brew in his eyes as he held the towel closer to his body and still managed to get some clean clothes. 

            "Sit," was all he said as he grabbed his key and a shirt and walked back into a changing stall, a scowl evident on his face. Angela obeyed, scared to cross him at this point. A few seconds later Spot reappeared fully clothed but still wore that same unhappy expression on his face. He opted to stand by the window while Angela sat on a bench.

            "So whad do ya want huh?" Spot asked as he finished drying his hair, his now-gray eyes chillingly calm.

            "Spot, we can't keep fighting like this. Let's just resolve it now before it goes any further," Angela replied, her eyes pleading.

            "Why should I'se do anythin' foa ya?! You'se been lyin' ta us awl along!" Spot shouted at her, making the girl jump back in fear and involuntarily cower. Spot saw this, but paid it no attention and continued his verbal assault on the girl.

            "An' if you'se is really an 'angel', den why are you'se down hea? Didja get thrown outta 'Heaven', if dere is really such a place?"

            "Spot, I was set here on a mission- to help you and your newsies. I. . .," Angela started to reply, but was cut off. 

            "Well, I'se think we'se been doin' fine if you'se ask me," he arrogantly stated, "we'se got a roof ova our heads, someplace ta sleep, nah I'se don't think we'se need any help, but thanks anyway."  

            "Spot! Please just hear me out! Then you can throw me out or whatever you plan to do, okay?" Angela said, nearly shouting at the Brooklyn leader.

            "Or I'se could save us both a lotta time an' jus' throw ya out now. See goil, I'se don't like bein' lied ta, so I'se would help ya pack but I'se gotta go a leader's meetin' in Manhattan in an hour, so I'se gotta run. Have a nice life," Spot told her as he picked up his slingshot and put his hat over his still damp hair and proceeded to walk out the door.

            "Patrick Samuel Conlon! Get your carcass back in here this instant!" Angela shouted, knowing he would probably exile her now for using that tone with him and then using his real name. Spot immediately appeared back at the door, his eyes even darker. 

            "Whad did ya jus' call me?" he asked, his voice eerily wavering.

            "Patrick Samuel Conlon. That's your name isn't it?" Angela asked him, trying to prove her point to him.

            "I'se neva told ya me real name. How did ya know it, ya crazy broad?!" He thundered, his left hand wrapped around his cane, ready for action.

            "I like to know about the people who I was sent down to guard, okay? I know your birthday, your parents' names, that freckle you have on your right buttock. I know all of that," Angela replied, cracking a small smile at the sight his cheeks turning a little red.        

            "Hey, you stop talkin' about me butt alright?" Spot said backing up against the wall. "What else?"

            "You hate lima beans, you're scared of dogs, your first 'girlfriend' was Sadie Perkins, a little girl you met when you were five years old at Central Park one day while playing hide and seek.

            "Your left foot is slightly bigger than your right one, you love mashed potatoes, you had a goldfish when you were younger- Sampson, I believe. Oh, and your first kiss was Alana Fletcher, by the monkey bars at your old school on the playground when you were seven. Does any of this sound familiar?"   

            "Yeah, all of it actually," Spot barely whispered, his heart racing. At that moment Rat, Spot's right hand man, appeared in the doorway, looking impatient as always. 

            "Spot, are ya gonna go ta dat leada meetin'? You'se is gonna be late if you'se don't hurry," he asked the Brooklyn leader.

            "Yeah, yeah, I'se goin'. I'se'll talk ta ya later, kay?" He directed the last question to Angela in a sincere voice, shocking both Rat and himself at the tone he used. He quickly exited the room, leaving a very confused Rat and Angela behind. 

            That night Spot arrived back at the Lodging House full of questions for Angela. He couldn't concentrate on any of the matters discussed at the meetings, he only thought of Angela and what she had told him. Jack even had to thump him on the head a few times to get him to answer a question that had been asked. 

            "What's da matta wid ya? What goil are ya dreaming about?" he asked Spot as he fixed his bandanna around his neck. 

            "No one, Jacky- boy. I'se jus' got a lot on me mind, alright?" Spot lied through his nicotine stained teeth to the Manhattan leader. Jack simply shook his head and clapped him on the back.

            "'Night Brooklyn."

            "'Night Cowboy."

            The two parted back to their own territories. Spot took some extra time going back to Brooklyn, thinking about God and even considered maybe going to church with Angela the following Sunday. This had to be a message- God had sent an angel to try to get him back on track. Suddenly Spot stopped and looked around. He was on the Brooklyn Bridge late at night, no one would see. He moved over to a shaded area at the very top of the bridge and got down on his knees as he removed his hat and bowed his head. The next words out of his mouth were something he hadn't said in a long time, but that was all going to change.

            "Uh, God? Ya there? Well I'se'll talk ta ya anyway even if ya aren't. I'se know I'se messed up big. I'se jus' stopped believin' in ya afta me pop killed me maw. How could ya let dat happen? Oh well, I'se ovahoid Angela tellin' one a me newsies dat trials an' tribulations help us ta get some wisdom every now an' again. They show us dat we'se nothin' widdout You; dat we'se need ta rely on Your strength every hour of the day. Dat does kinda make sense…"

            He paused for a moment before continuing, Angela's voice replaying in his head. When the newsie had asked her about why God let bad things happen to good people she replied: 

            _'There are times when He has to give people a wake up call, so that they can see that tomorrow's not promised. If He didn't do that once in a while, do you know how lost we'd be? We'd be thinking that we could do whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted to. But through suffering, we understand that God has a better plan than the one we may have written for ourselves. He shows us that He's in control, not us.'_

            After Spot recollected that he continued his prayer: 

            "An' so I'se guess whad I'se tryin' ta say is dat I'se need Ya. More than eva, especially now. I'se really didn't realize me life was so off-track. An' also, thanks for sendin' Angie down hea. She's doin her job. Alright, well I'se gotta get back now. Thanks foa listenin'." 

                        With that, Spot placed his hat back on his head, a sense of relief now coursing through his veins. He smiled as he entered the lively boarding house and walked the length of the lobby where a few boys were sprawled out playing a card game. He quickly climbed the steps to the bunkroom and found Angie reading her bible and underlining a verse on her bunk. 

            "Heya Ange," he said as he moved toward her and took his place on her bed. She looked up and smiled at him as she finished reading a passage and dog-eared the page as she closed the book.

            "Hi Spot," she said as she sat up and faced him. "So what were you going to talk to me about?"

            He studied her for a moment and cautiously looked around to make sure no one was paying attention to them. "Well ya jus kinda freaked me out when ya started telling me all dese things about meself- I'se mean, I'se neva told anyone any a dat an' ya jus pop up and start sayin' all dese things. . .it scared da hell outta me okay?!" He kept his voice low and glanced once more around the room, "but I'se want ya ta know dat on me way home I'se stopped off on da bridge an' prayed, okay? I'se ain't done that in awhile, but. . ."

            "It felt good, didn't it?" Angie interrupted him with a knowing smile.

            "Yeah, yeah it did," Spot confided in her as a smile crossed his lips. "Thanks foa snappin' me back inta reality." 

            "Anytime Spot. Anytime."

_Fly me up to where you are   
Beyond the distant star   
I wish upon tonight   
To see you smile   
If only for awhile to know you're there   
A breath away's not far   
To where you are  _

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

            The next Sunday Spot agreed to attend church with Angela, making sure they went to the early service so the boys would still be sleeping in when they left. He still wasn't comfortable telling his newsies that he was a Christian; they would only poke fun and think he has joking. The Spot Conlon they knew didn't need anyone; he didn't rely on a higher power. Although he was content with the image they perceived of him, he knew sooner or later one would be up about the time they left or ask Angela to go with her to church. Luckily, most were too exhausted to get up and get dressed by 7:30. After all, Sunday was their only day off. The pair walked silently to St. Patrick's where surprisingly they were greeted with smiles and handshakes. It had always surprised him that anyone was welcome at church, even a poor person. Spot and Angela slid into a pew and waited for the service to begin. Little by little the words to hymns and prayers began to slowly creep out from the corners of Spot's mind where they had been shoved, hopefully to be forgotten forever. After the conclusion of the service the pair took a walk through Central Park.

            "So how did ya become an angel?" Spot asked her as the wind tussled her hair and blew strands into her face.

            "Well," Angela began as she tucked her hair behind her ear and gestured to a nearby bench for the pair to sit on, "from what I remember and from what I'm told, I was about four when it all happened. . ."

            "When whad happened?" Spot asked curiously as he leaned forward. 

            "The shooting," Angela replied a little dejectedly as she fingered the lace of her dress. "My father, Lord rest his soul, was a banker. He and his friends liked to go out a lot to the races and other things like that. Well a few days before the shooting happened, my father was accused of stealing money from the bank in order to gamble it off on races. There had been some money missing, and my father seemed like the only one to blame since he closed up every night. Well one evening Mr. Wrigley, the owner of the bank, came to the house with the police and demanded that my dad pay back the sixty-two dollars that were missing. Well when my father said he didn't have it, Mr. Wrigley refused to leave until he got the money. Well by then I had snuck out of my room and was creeping by my father and the police were aiming at him with their guns. My mother was away at a friend of hers and there was no one to stop me, so I ran to my dad. . ."

            She paused, looking up at Spot, her blue eyes beginning to water. "You sure you wanna hear the rest?"

            Spot wrapped his arm around her and rocked her back in forth for a moment before whispering, "Please?"

            "Well my sudden movement caused one of the policemen to accidentally pull the trigger. . .I guess you could say I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The next thing I knew there was blood coming from my chest, my white nightgown had bloodstains all over it. . .my father looked helpless. He tried to get me to stay awake, he really did, but. . ."

            Angela suddenly broke down and hid her face in Spot's shirt. "I closed my eyes and never opened them again." She sighed and looked at Spot, his face full of astonishment and compassion.

            "Angela?" He whispered her name and looked over at her. "What's it like to die?"

            She blew her nose in his handkerchief and looked over at him, her eyes looking suddenly sympathetic. 

            "You're numb. . .it's like being born, your life flashes before you but you don't feel anything and then suddenly everything just stops and goes blank. You see everyone you've met, and I mean everyone. It's like one of those picture shows without sound. The next thing I knew I was at the Pearly Gates, surrounded by angels. It was like they had been carrying up there or something, I'm not sure. Then I saw Him. God. He was. . .so righteous and looked so warm. I don't remember exactly what was said, but the next thing I knew He gathered me in his arms and I felt so free. The years pass like days up There. I hadn't even realized I had been up There for so long when I was summoned to help you. My, how the world has changed. I can't say I'd rather be here than There but I imagine it could be worse."

            She paused and looked up as Spot moved toward her and caught her in a soft, sensual kiss. His lips met hers and his hand rubbed her back softly as she surrendered into his will. She did have to admit she was attracted to him, but something suddenly clicked in her mind and she pushed him away and looked at him, her face framing a silent apology as she gazed down.

            "But. . ." Spot began as he watched her play with her auburn ringlets and shake her head.

            "Spot, don't," She replied and looked up; a bit surprised the harsh tone she had taken. She shook her head and adjusted her jacket and began to walk back to Brooklyn. Spot was tempted to go after her but decided to watch her instead. Suddenly he felt something wet land on his face, and then another. 

            "Might as well bring on da rain," he muttered as he shook his head and let the beads of water fly off him. He slowly walked through the rain, his head still spinning from the kiss and also from the rejection. What was her problem? He shrugged; he would never understand anything that girls did. His anger raged inside of him, making it almost impossible to walk straight. Spot Conlon always got what he wanted, always. He looked at his pocket watch and decided to go see Medda for the remainder of the afternoon. There was no sense in walking back to Brooklyn now. He jogged a few blocks and finally caught up with Blink and Mush who were also on their way to Irving Hall to catch the matinee show of Medda's new routine. 

_Are you gently sleeping   
Here inside my dream   
And isn't faith believing   
All power can't be seen_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

back in Brooklyn. . . 

            Angela shuffled her feet and frowned as it began to sprinkle. She skipped across the street and entered a nearby café where she decided to get a hot cup of tea and wait out the storm. She quietly sipped her tea as the storm worsened and sighed as her thoughts seemed to drift back to Spot. Why did Spot have to be so self-centered? Did he just think she was there to maybe teach him a few things while he used her in the process? She stirred her tea and gazed out the window. The rain was coming down harder, and for a moment she thought wondered where Spot was and if he was alright. She knew he could take care of himself and she also realized deep down all Spot really wanted and needed was someone for him to love who would love him back. She regretted being so harsh about the kiss, but knew that it was not in God's plans to fall in love with him. He still had the rest of his life for that; she, however, didn't. She sighed and hoped that wherever Spot was that he was alright.   

   ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

            Spot left Medda's in a better mood than he arrived there, but his spirits were quickly dampened when he realized it was still raining and that he did miss Angela. He was still angry about what had happened earlier that day, and scowled as he saw couples dashing through puddles and laughing in complete delight. Suddenly his eye caught some very flashy signs that had girls dressed in next to nothing, and men with goofy grins on their faces. 

            "Ah, Dreamstreet," he uttered as he approached the ramshackle building that ironically was only two blocks from St. Patrick's. He felt around in his pocket, and a smirk appeared on his face as he realized he had about twenty cents in his pocket, just enough to fulfill his needs for the night. He softly knocked on the door and when asked who it was replied, 'A very lonely man'. The door was immediately answered, and a girl wearing only a corset and very heavy eye makeup ushered him and sat on his lap.

            "How can I make your day better?" she asked as she played with one of his suspenders.

            "Well Dollface, I'se got twenty cents in me pocket. Surprise me," he smirked as her eyes widened at the profit she would make that night. She giggled and removed his hat and placed it on her head as she took his change. She grabbed his hand and led him to a dark room at the top of the stairs.

            "Go on in," she said as she unlocked the door and lit a candle. "I'll be back in a minute."

            Spot removed his shoes and then his shirt and suspenders and sat on the bed. The girl entered the room once again, this time wearing a robe in addition to her earlier attire. She made her way towards the bed, eyeing Spot as she licked her lips. The walls shuddered as other nightly activities took place and screams of delight could be heard from the room beside them. This bothered neither of them; both were intent on getting their night started.

            "So, uhh, whad do I'se call ya?" Spot asked as the girl approached him, her eyes smiling as she joined him on the bed. He knew he was simply making conversation, and even though this was not his first time to be involved with a girl like this, he was still uncomfortable with just treating her as an object, although many would argue that was simply all she was, but he tried his best to still respect her. 

            "Well, I like to be called Angel, and I'm sure you'll agree why at the end of our night together," she replied in a sultry voice as she unbuttoned his pants and slid them down to his knees. Spot looked up sharply as she said this, wondering if it was some cruel trick God was playing on him. Seeing that this girl was nothing like Angela he considered it a mere coincidence and smiled as he reveled in the night and swiftly removed her robe and undergarments and joined her on the bed. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

            Angela glanced at the old grandfather clock in the lobby for what seemed like the hundredth time in the last ten minutes. Nine thirty. Where was Spot? She knew he had to come home and check on his newsies. She shivered. It had stopped raining over an hour ago, and she was worried that Spot was not home yet. She left her post at the window and got ready for bed, hoping that Spot would walk through the door any minute. She took a seat in the rocking chair in the lobby and closed her eyes. She jerked her head up when the door opened, only to see Dart dash up to the bunkroom in order to be in bed by curfew. A few minutes later, Slingshot appeared at the foot of the stairs, holding Angela's bible in his small hands. 

            "Hi Slingshot," she smiled at the small blonde-haired boy as he made his way to her.

            "Hi Miss Angie," he replied as he crawled into her lap and handed her the book. He laid his head on her chest and snuggled in the soft fabric of her gown. "Will you read to me?"

            "Sure," she said as she opened the book and began to read to him the story of the Garden of Eden. As she read she felt Slingshot's breathing become heavier and heavier as she realized that he had fallen asleep. She decided to keep reading until she finished in case he should suddenly wake up and turned the page. Suddenly the front door creaked open and Angela glanced up to see Spot remove his muddy shoes. He looked up in time to see her sitting there with Slingshot and sneered at the book in her hands. 

            "Always reading that damned book," he growled, his eyes turning to stone. He suddenly ripped the book from her grasp and began to crinkle the pages as he tore them out and threw them on the floor. Angela looked on in absolute horror as the book she so dearly loved was being destroyed right before her eyes. 

            "Spot, please stop," she managed to beg of him as he continued to tear out pages. He glanced down at Slingshot who was gawking at him, his leader. He dropped the book and told Slingshot to go to bed, leaving Angela to pick up her ruined book. 

_As my heart holds you   
Just one beat away   
I cherish all you gave me everyday   
'Cause you are mine   
Forever love   
Watching me from up above_

_And I believe_

_That angels__ breathe_

_And that love will live on and never leave_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

            The days turned into weeks, and soon it was early December and the first snowstorm of the year hit. Angela watched the boys play in it like dogs and laughed as they threw snowballs at each other. Spot even took part in the merriment and pelted his newsies with snowballs as well. It had been over two weeks since the fight, and Angela and Spot still weren't talking. Neither one wanted to be the first to apologize, so both kept their distance from the other. Angela had since bought a new bible and kept it safely hidden in case Spot decided to take his frustrations out on her belongings again. She continually prayed about Spot and even offered him a smile a few times, but all Spot did in reply was scowl. He never sold around her or even acknowledged her most of the time. One time she swallowed her pride and tried to talk to Spot only to be harshly brushed aside and ignored. 

            It was a sleepy Thursday morning when Spot and the others walked to the distribution office. Some snow had fallen during the night, creating a whimsical wonderland for lovers to frolic in. He scowled as he waited for his newsies to buy their papers. He hated working in the winter. He glanced at the front of the line. Five more to go. He pulled his jacket around him tighter and smiled as he saw his breath in the icy weather. He watched Angela purchase her papers and then slowly walk down the gangplank. She seemed a little paler than normal, but so did everyone in the winter time. Finally Spot purchased his usual 120 papers and walked down the gangplank to tell his newsies to move out.

            "Spot," Angela quietly said as he passed her, "I don't feel. . ."

            Spot turned to her just in time to see her legs give out from under her and her eyes roll into the back of her head. He immediately dropped all of his papers and caught her just as she was about to hit the icy ground. Spot felt her forehead. She was burning up. He gathered her into his arms and told his newsies to take his papers and go sell. He tried to nudge her awake but she only gazed up and closed her eyes again. He swiftly walked through the snow and made his way back to the Lodging House. Mrs. Harding would know what to do. He kicked the door open with his foot and found Mrs. Harding tidying up the lobby. She took one look at Angela and ushered them into a spare bedroom on the first floor, knowing it would be difficult for Spot to carry her up a flight of stairs. 

            "What happened Spot?" she asked as she soaked a rag in cool water and laid it on Angela's forehead. Spot told her what had happened, and Mrs. Harding felt around Angela's neck to check for swollen lymph nodes, a key symptom of the flu or a very bad cold. She shook her head and glanced up at Spot. 

            "She has influenza," She told him, her eyes reflecting a silent apology. Spot stood there, looking stunned as he gazed at Angela. People died from influenza. But she was an angel, he reasoned, she couldn't die. Mrs. Harding rose from her bed and rubbed Spot's back comfortingly. "Here," she told him as she moved a chair to the bed, "sit down."

            Spot thanked her and removed his hat as he sat down in the chair. He grasped Angela's warm hand in his own and rubbed it softly, his head still spinning from the news. Angela could very well be on her death bed and just a few days ago he wouldn't have cared at all. He ran his fingers through her tangled hair and smoothed her bangs back from her hot brow. He watched her swallow and struggle to breathe without wheezing or coughing and sighed. He knew they couldn't do anything for her. She already seemed to match the starched white pillows around her. Why hadn't he noticed any of this before? He answered his own question: because he could have cared less. She had hurt him a way very few girls had; that was why he was always the one to end the relationship. You couldn't be hurt if you didn't care. But he did care. She had showed him what he was missing out on, a relationship with God that he had given up on years ago, the simple joy of living and being free. He squeezed her hand and decided that the only logical thing to do was to pray. He glanced at Angela's sweaty brow and her burning cheeks and bowed his head and closed his eyes.

            "Hey God," he began, "I really need ya now. Ya takin' Angie away and I'se dun think she's done yet. She just got me back where I need ta be and I had ta push her away. Well I need her back now. Right here with me. Alright God, I admit it, I messed this thing up. But don't take her. All da boys love her. Please God. I need her to teach me things. I need her," He paused and buried his head in his hands. 

            "Spot," Angela softly whispered, her voice hoarse. "You talk too much."

            Spot jerked his head up to see a very tired Angela trying to reach a glass of water on the adjacent nightstand. He retrieved the water and gave it to her. He watched her drink and sigh. She smiled at him and stroked his cheek with her hand, now cool from holding the water. "It'll be okay, Spot, I promise."

            "But you're not done yet. You told me you came here on a mission. But you're not done. You'se can't be done. The boys need ya. I'se need ya," he reasoned and glanced at her, his eyes looking solemn.

            "Spot," Angela gathered her energy and looked at him, "you all will be fine. I have faith in you. And God. If my job wasn't already done then I wouldn't be here in this bed, dying."  

            She looked up to see a tear escape from Spot's eye and gently brushed it away. He grasped her hand in his own and told her, "Angie, remember that day I kissed ya? I'se spent the afternoon in Manhattan and then I went to a whorehouse and. . ."

            Angela placed a finger on his lips and looked at him. "I know. God knows. He forgives you."

            "But do _you_ forgive me?" Spot asked her, another tear threatening to escape from his eye. 

            "Of course," she told him and added, "The world would be in such turmoil if we never let things go and forgave each other. Please always try to forgive others."

            Spot nodded, as he hid his face by her side. She softly touched his face and told him, "One day you will forget about me. You will go on to have a career, a wife, and children. You will be a great husband and father. Just don't ever give up on God again."

            Angela closed her eyes and drew in her last breath. Spot looked at her, astonished that she had been talking to him one moment and was gone the next. He let the tears fall freely as he laid her still hand by her side. Her features, so young a few moments ago, were now aged. He pulled the sheet over her head and closed the door, a sense of reassurance now with him.   

_Fly me up to where you are   
Beyond the distant star   
I wish upon tonight   
To see you smile   
If only for awhile to know you're there   
A breath away's not far   
To where you are  _

*********end of flashback**********

            Spot aimlessly strolled through the cemetery as it began to drizzle. He hadn't been here in years. After the shooting, he only dared go in there once to simply find his mother's grave. He didn't hurry his pace as he located Angela's grave, signified with a new mound of dirt atop it. He laid a white rose by her headstone and sighed.

            "You were wrong," he began, "I'se could neva forget ya."

            Spot took one last glance at the headstone and turned to walk away. He could almost feel her beside him saying _I'll always be with you._

"Bye," he said and finally exited the holy ground. He adjusted his hat and walked on to start the rest of his life.    

_I know you're there_

_A breath away's not far   
To where you are  _

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

EPILOGUE

            Spot, as he vowed, never forgot about Angela. He always made time to visit her grave at the cemetery and even attended church at Saint Patrick's as often as possible. At the ripe age of twenty, he traded in his newspapers for a job working at the docks, unloading and loading shipments for businesses. He also met the love of his life, Lily Rembrandt, and married her a year later. He told Lily about his experiences with Angela and when their first child, a daughter, was born gave her the name Angela Hope in her memory. Spot lived a prosperous life, as Angela had told him he would, and also took the time to pray and remember those days that changed his life.

"Show me your ways, O Lord, teach me your paths; guide me in your truth and teach me, for you are God my Savior, and my hope is in you all day long. Remember, O Lord, your great mercy and love, for they are from of old. Remember not the sins of my youth and my rebellious ways; according to your love rememeber me, for you are good, O Lord." – Psalm 25:4-7

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A.N.: Review review!! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing this. I admit I don't know all the answers about God and I did try to the best of my knowledge to write what I think would happen in this situation. Thanks again for reading this!! 


End file.
